


hell is a place in your dreams

by kanradiary



Series: two halves of a whole : DMC modern AU [3]
Category: Devil May Cry, DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21568843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanradiary/pseuds/kanradiary
Summary: This is his deepest fantasy.
Relationships: Dante (DmC)/Vergil (Devil May Cry), Dante/Vergil (DmC)
Series: two halves of a whole : DMC modern AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554433
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	hell is a place in your dreams

**Author's Note:**

> More vignettes! I've been busy lately but Vergil is still so fun to play with, I just had to write something short lol  
Unedited, unbeta'd!

Darkness, like light, is never permanent. It shifts and morphs and changes with the turn of the earth and the pull of the tide, so it is no surprise to Vergil when the shadows behind his eyelids fade into a scene familiar yet foreign all at once.

A place he recognises purely on instinct: hell.

Dante is grinning at him again, that stretch of lips over white teeth, his canines bared like a predator lying in wait. His pale face is illuminated in a gentle flush, translucent under the glow of the underworld’s moons.

Vergil half-expects the halo that is his mess of bleached hair, but what greets him this time is new. Tonight his twin’s hair is dark as blood, cut short like an unruly teenager’s, his fringe a tangle of curls - a different Dante. His features are blurred around the edges, almost unreal, his presence more impressions than anything else.

Yet Dante is still Dante - Vergil would recognise him anywhere, just as intimately recognisable as the intricacies of his own mind.

Vergil is immobile, as these things tend to go.

And then the anticipated line: “How about a kiss from your little brother?”

This scene plays out the same every time, but Vergil’s not dreamed of this for too long. It takes him by surprise when Dante whips out a gun and shoots, the bullet passing just shy of Vergil’s cheek. The sting of a fresh cut throbs under his ruptured skin.

He knows he’s been here before, but Vergil’s forgotten the steps to their dance.

In hell, it’s surprisingly cold. Vergil has never been a fan of low temperatures, but the bite of hellfire frost is like nothing he’s ever felt - searing and icy all at once. And Dante, burning with life before him, smiling that infuriating smile.

It’s no secret that Vergil has always envied Dante his warmth.

Dante charges at Vergil in a full run - foolish, if only Vergil were able to move, but as it is the only one in any danger right now is Vergil himself. He mentally braces for impact. A gunshot or two, flesh tearing under the cold punch of a bullet. Dante’s burning hot skin, flaring pain when his knuckles press against Vergil’s exposed nerves.

Yet when Dante moves, it’s as if time slows down. Vergil spends an eternity watching Dante approach, never to arrive before him.

This is his deepest fantasy.

Vergil, frozen in time, and Dante, self-immolating in his own desire for the unattainable. Locked in an inescapable loop. Nothing moves, and nothing changes.

Hellfire is waterproof. Vergil doesn’t know how he is aware of this, but in the recesses of his sleeping mind, he is nothing but absolutely certain of it. The sun rises in the East. Dante is his younger brother. Hellfire is waterproof.

When it begins to drizzle, he thinks:  _ Useless. _ And then:  _ It won’t put out the fire at all. _

Dante is still moving without moving. It should look ridiculous, but Vergil believes that Dante, for all his faults, excels in making the ridiculous inexplicably attractive. For a moment he wonders if it will eventually cease, Dante’s endless chase.

But this is what he wanted.

Hellfire is waterproof, so the falling rain only serves to send the temperature around them below freezing.

Water soaks into the thick wool of his clothes, crystallising into ice, rain sliding down the collar of his coat and finding the warm place at the base of his neck. It melts damp over his numb skin. His shirt sticks to his chest, uncomfortably cold.

Dante’s silhouette fades slowly into the downpour.

———

He opened his eyes to darkness.

There was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, like he’d forgotten something. It unsettled him: the knowledge that he was unaware of what he was missing. Vergil had never been this careless.

His duvet was slumped in a pile on the floor by his bed, his bare legs smudges of pale beige against the charcoal bedsheets. A frigid breeze from the open balcony doors brushed over his exposed skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

The air smelled like dew and petrichor. Beyond the bracket of his blackout curtains, the cracked tiles of his balcony flooring glistened under the glow of the streetlights. It had rained in the night while Vergil was asleep. A thin fog crept along his balcony edge, peeking into his room and ducking into the space between his and Dante’s apartments in turns.

He shivered.

Vergil was sure he’d closed the doors last night, susceptible to the cold as he was, yet the evidence lay before him: damning. Clearly he’d forgotten.

When he got up the floor was cold under his feet, frosty like glass left too long in the snow. He missed the relative warmth of the bed immediately.

Across the little alleyway separating their two apartment blocks, Dante’s bedroom reclined in the shadows, watching Vergil from where he could not see it. He was gripped by the compulsion to cross the space between them as he had a few nights ago, but refused to give in.

Since that encounter, he hadn’t spoken to or seen Dante. It was as if the man had vanished completely.

A stripe of streetlight ran its way over his skin, yellow and warm, cold to the touch.

Dante had up and left, of this Vergil was sure. He’d missed his chance.


End file.
